


Hawke Family Values

by Zendelai



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots, Drabbles, and etc. [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: And some less than happy days, But at least there were no Darkspawn, Gen, Happier days before the Blight, Life Lessons, Pre-Dragon Age 2, Young Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was never a dull moment growing up in the Hawke household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawke Family Values

**Author's Note:**

> This is a giveaway prize for Interstellarperformance over on tumblr.
> 
> I'm sorry I've kept you waiting so long, but I hope you enjoy!

"Do we really have to do this, Varric?" Hawke shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

 

"Your past makes you more accessible, more _real_. I want my readers to know that you're more than just a legend; you're a person, who suffered to get to where you are."

 

She sighed and gazed at the low ceilings in Varric's writing room in The Hanged Man. "This isn't exactly my favourite topic of conversation, you know."

 

Varric leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I know. But with this, the world can learn what great people your family were. Still are, in Bethany's case. We're preserving their legacy."

 

Her brows furrowed in concern, her eyes met his. "Just... don't put your usual embellishment on this, alright? I want to keep everything as close to the truth as we can."

 

Varric nodded slowly, scribbling a note on his parchment. "We will, Hawke."

 

\--

 

The humidity was so thick in the air that it stifled Marian. The heaviness combined with her exhaustion from riding for so long left her sticky, sweaty, and labouring for breath. Yet the forest around them seemed never ending; she was grateful that her stallion Adam possessed a sure foot, for he was able to navigate the fallen branches and protruding tree stumps without her guidance, leaving her lost in her thoughts.

 

Their newest town had been… well, less than welcoming to the family. It was a town that had been nearly untouched by the passage of time, each family living in a home that had been passed down through generations. As a result, the citizens seemed to live in their own worlds, completely shielded from the politics outside of their borders. The Hawkes had purchased a small farm on the outskirts, primarily farming corn crops with a small chicken coop, and although their self-grown eggs, corn, and chicken kept them mostly fed, on occasion they had to enter the foreboding town to make a few purchases at the market. As they did, unwelcoming gazes met them, each transaction as swift as the seller could make them, their prices double that of one of the town’s citizens. It was maddening, but they had no choice: the next nearest town was ten miles as the crow flies, much too far to pick up a few supplies.

 

Father was silent, almost sullen, as they rode together, his mare Lady having a more difficult time navigating the forest floor than Marian’s stallion, stumbling often. He and Mother had a nasty row the night before -- plates were thrown, voices were raised -- and Marian was sure that was why Father asked her to accompany him instead of Mother. Marian was now old enough to watch over the twins herself, after all, but Mother had muttered about “too much to do around the house” and asked to stay home with Bethany and Carver.

 

Not that Marian minded: although they had only been at the farm for a few months, she already felt stifled by its small brick walls and the complete lack of other civilization near them. On occasion she would sneak into the corn fields and lay among the crops, watching them dance in the wind above her while she gazed into the sky, smiling when a bird or two passed her field of vision.

 

Swiftly she was pulled out of her reverie when again Father’s mare stumbled; this time, however, her front legs completely buckled and her head went to the ground, pitching Father over her neck and into the mud.

 

“Father!” Marian cried, pulling her horse to a stop and sliding off the side of her saddle. Her legs were saddle sore but she pushed herself to run to his side.

 

“I’m fine,” he grunted, pushing himself up onto his elbows. When he glanced in Lady’s direction he grimaced, and Marian followed his gaze.

 

The mare’s breathing appeared more laboured, her gentle eyes glazed over. Marian’s eyes trailed down her body, and she started when she spotted it: a bear trap had ensnarled Lady’s foreleg, and dark blood was oozing out of the wound.

 

Father stood and placed himself at Lady’s side, his hands pressed into her soft coat, letting out a wistful sigh. His brow was furrowed in concern as he gingerly touched the trap and Lady let out a cry of pain, in such anguish that the sound that emerged was unlike anything Marian had heard before; the sound seemed to travel deep within her, penetrating her bones and her skull, pushing tears out of her eyes.

 

“Maker,” Father muttered. Closing his eyes he focused himself and blue light began to radiate from his hands, directed on the wound, illuminating the cursed trap. He worked ceaselessly trying to heal the poor mare, while sweat poured from his brow in droves, drenching his receding hairline and his tunic. Marian felt helpless as she alternated between patting the mare, whispering soothing words that she didn’t understand, and mopping up Father’s brow.

 

After what felt like an eternity had passed, when Father was soaked with sweat and pale as a sheet, he pulled away.

 

“I can’t do it,” he whispered in anguish. “I can’t save her.” Marian knew little about magic, but she knew enough to accept that Father had reached his limits, and that Lady’s fate was outside of his control.

 

“Marian…” Father sighed. “There are many injuries that a healer like myself can fix. There are also many injuries that a healer like myself can’t. When I face those that I can’t…” He sighed and rested his hand on Lady’s nose, feeling her breath against his palm. Her docile eyes were boring into Father’s, the adrenaline coursing through her veins taking away the worst of the pain. “Then I must grant them peace. It is the part of being a healer I have never shown you.” His hand moved up Lady’s face until it rested beside her eye, and she closed it in comfort. “Do you understand death, Marian?”

 

“Is that when we join the Maker?” She asked.

 

“Some see it as such.” Father’s gaze never left Lady’s, and Marian could see tears forming in his brown eyes, the same shade of brown hers possessed. “Others see it as simply an end. Everyone must face it one day -- me, Mother, you, even Carver and Bethany. Death is a necessary part of life. But death hurts those we leave behind more than it hurts us.” Father’s eyes flickered to Marian’s. “To us, it is falling asleep, and having a wonderful dream that we never wake up from.”

 

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

 

“I don’t think it will be. It won’t hurt Lady either.” His spare hand rested on Lady’s neck, petting her in long, slow strokes. Wordlessly he gestured for Marian to pet her, to soothe her, and she did. With a resigned sigh, Father produced a shard of ice from his palm that he drove into Lady’s head. At first Marian was startled as Lady’s body trembled one last time before her stomach deflated one last time, her gaze still peaceful even in death.

 

“Thank you, Lady,” Father whispered before pressing a gentle kiss onto the horse’s still cheek. “And thank you, Marian.” He took the hand that had been resting on Lady’s neck in his own. “That was very brave of you to help me.”

 

“I didn’t do anything,” Marian countered.

 

A weak smile pulled up the corner of his lip. “You were there for me, and for Lady.” He turned away and muttered to himself, in a voice so low that Marian wondered if the words were meant for her, “No one should die alone.”

 

After bidding Lady a final goodbye, and tying a red cloth around a tree to signify her location so they could retrieve her body later, Father mounted Adam and pulled Marian up behind her.

 

The ride home was silent as both parent and child were lost in their thoughts.

 

\--

 

“...And so the t-t-temp… what’s this word?”

 

“Templars.”

 

“And so the templars keep the ma...ma…”

 

“Mages.”

 

“And so the templars keep the mages safe in the Circles.”

 

“Good work, Carver!” Marian pressed a kiss to her younger brother’s temple. “You won’t need my help reading for much longer.”

 

Carver’s dark brows were pulled into a concentrated furrow; Marian checked the page to see if there was another word that he was having difficulty with but found none.

 

“Mari,” he asked quietly, “Isn’t Father a mage?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why isn’t he in a Circle?”

 

Marian sighed softly. Her Father had been the one to have this discussion with Bethany, but it seemed that it would be her turn with Carver. “Circles are made to protect mages from themselves, and to protect non-mages from mages.”

 

“Okay…” He stretched out the second syllable before trailing off, small brows raising.

 

“But that means cutting mages off from everyone else, loved ones included. It also means that a mage will only be in the Circle their whole life, never allowed to leave except for emergencies.”

 

Carver’s six-year-old brain took a moment to work through that puzzle as he gazed at his quickly-growing hands. “That would be sad,” he said finally. “Not being able to see Father and Mother anymore.” Wide blue eyes seeked out Marian. “Am I a mage?”

 

Well, if she was stuck with this conversation, might as well make it an honest one. “We don’t know yet. You’ll find out when you’re around my age.”

 

Tears unbidden filled his bright blue eyes. “I don’t want to be a mage. I don’t want to go to a Circle. The templars don’t sound very nice if they make you stay there.”

 

With a groan, Marian hoisted her growing brother into her lap, running her fingers soothingly through his dark mat of hair. “Not all templars are bad, just as not all mages are bad. And we can’t pick if we’ll be mages or if we won’t. No matter what you are, we’ll always love you. Besides, Father will protect you. He’s avoided the Circles so he can stay with us, I’m sure he wouldn’t lose you to one.”

 

Carver nodded slowly, brushing at his eyes with his forearms. “Maybe…” He sniffled. “If I’m not a mage, maybe I’ll be a templar. A good one. Who helps the mages.”

 

She was glad that Carver wasn’t looking at her at that moment, for she began to frown. She hoped to the Maker that Carver would never become a Templar, because although she knew there was good in their ranks, she also knew there was much corruption, the type that one with as soft of a heart as Carver’s should never have to face. “Whatever you are, I’ll be proud of you.” She pressed her lips into his hair. “Now get to bed you scoundrel, you smell like the dog!”

 

“ _You_ smell like the dog!”

 

Peace was restored again to the Hawke household.

 

\--

 

"Help me, please!"

 

At once, Bethany and Marian perked up from their gardening; sensing the change in their body language, their mabari, Cheese, lifted his head from his paws to gaze upon them with solemn brown eyes.

 

"What was that?" Bethany whispered, wiping her soil-covered palms on her dress. Leandra had learned to dress her in dark colours since she had started tending to the garden, as she refused to use gloves and always confused her dress with a rag.

 

Another scream resonated from the trees; not of fear, but of pain. Bethany stood swiftly, her skirts bouncing, already drawn to the sound of the person in need.

 

Because that was Bethany: she always put the welfare of others before herself.

 

From her place squatting on the ground Marian grabbed Bethany's wrist, stopping her advance. "It could be a trap, Bethy. Templars are smart."

 

Her sister's sharp eyes, filled with a determined fire, met Marian's. "You scout it out, then. You're sneaky."

 

Marian sighed dramatically but acquiesced, hoisting herself up and approaching the forest. Cheese jumped up and tried to follow Marian, but she commanded, "Wait," and he sat beside Bethany, his ears perked and head cocked in curiosity.

 

She entered the first of the pine trees, grateful for the low cover of the thick brush. Moving slowly to keep her footsteps quiet, she followed the sounds of heavy breathing. It was a short trip before she found a clearing, and within it lay a boy; Marian guessed he was no older than thirteen-year-old Bethany, and he held his side to staunch a gaping wound where blood poured out in droves. He was pale as a ghost. Quickly surveying the surrounding trees, Marian deemed that this was no trap, just a boy needing aid, and she stepped out of the trees to wave for Bethany and Cheese, who both trotted to her.

 

"There's a boy in there," Marian whispered. "He's injured."

 

"How bad is it?"

 

She frowned in concern. "He's losing a lot of blood."

 

"Papa's gone into town with Carver, it'll take hours to get to him." Bethany swallowed and set her jaw in determination. "I need to help him."

 

Before Marian could utter a word of protest, hands on hips Bethany noisily marched into the trees, Cheese bouncing joyfully in her wake. She broke into the clearing and dashed to the boy's side, who was moaning and rolling into his blood.

 

"Please... help me... it hurts..." his voice was harsh and faint; he would likely lose consciousness without Bethany's aid.

 

"This may hurt a little, but it'll feel better after." The boy was too weak to protest or even respond, and, holding her hands above the wound, faint blue light poured out of Bethany's hands into the boy. Marian circled the clearing, ensuring what whoever -- or whatever -- had done this to him would not return, and Cheese sat beside Bethany, fixing her with a watchful gaze.

 

For what felt like an eternity they waited, until Bethany herself turned pale and sweat poured from her brow. As Bethany grew weaker the boy grew stronger, until he could sit up and rub the weariness from his eyes.

 

"You saved me," he whispered reverently. "With magic."

 

"What happened?" Bethany asked, pulling a waterskin from her pack and drinking it until it was empty.

 

The boy flushed in shame. "The farmer's dog attacked me. I was just taking a pepper! Just one!" His eyes flickered up to Bethany's, and Marian could see the fear within them. "How did you do that?"

 

"I'm a healer."

 

The boy's brow furrowed. "Aren't mages supposed to be in the Circle? Why aren't you?"

 

Bethany's expression fell. The boy was starting to ask too many questions for Marian's liking, but she didn't know how to warn Bethany. Luckily, Bethany lied smoothly, "I'm still too young. I'll go when I'm of age."

 

"You're lying," the boy spat. "My friend went to the Circle when she was ten. You're an apostate!"

 

"I --"

 

Swiftly the boy stood, his gaze filled with a deadly combination of fear and determination. "I'm going to call the Templars on you!" Without a word of thanks he sprinted north out of the clearing, leaving a stunned Bethany and a perturbed Marian in his wake.

 

"Ungrateful sod." Although Marian's words were flippant, her voice trembled.

 

They both knew what this meant: they'd have to move again, and quickly. The nearest Templar stronghold was twenty miles away as the crow flies, but who was to say the boy didn't have a horse nearby? Or even worse, ran into a Templar patrol?

 

Her knees shaking, Bethany slowly stood and embraced Marian, her breath hitching as she sobbed. When she pulled away, Bethany put on a strong smile in spite of the moisture in her eyes.

 

"Come, let's break the news to Mother. We'll need to pack again."

 

\--

 

Bare feet plodded along the muddy ground, kicking up dirt in their wake, as Carver sprinted towards the quarry, letting out an enthused cry of “Cannonball!”. Mother and Father rose into a chorus of laughter as a huge splash, taller than Carver himself, rose around him as he wrapped his arms around his legs and careened into the water.

 

He emerged, smiling broadly, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. “Come on in, the water’s g-g-great!” He attempted to hide his shivering with a broad, slightly mischievous grin.

 

Marian always thought of Carver as near amphibious: he had a natural inclination towards water, not caring much for the temperature or the cleanliness. To her surprise, Bethany sprinted after her brother, choosing a more graceful entry by keeping her feet first and plugging her nose before plunging in. When she rose she gasped for breath. “It’s freezing, Carver!” she chastised, wrapping herself with her arms. Her twin retaliated with a playful splash, laughing before propelling himself away.

 

Bethany was more of a lover of earth than water, preferring to take her time to nurture that which grew, loving plants, herbs, and vegetables. This fact was evident as Bethany skipped out of the water, wrapping herself in a nearby swatch of cloth while shivering, awaiting the sun’s rays to warm her pale skin.

 

Mother and Father exchanged glances, and although Mother backed away from the water, Father grabbed her hand and, ignoring her protests, dragged her to the water’s edge before pulling her in with him. In spite of Mother’s perturbance she was laughing with Father when they both emerged from the water, skin slick with moisture, eyes bright with joy.

 

If Carver was a water person and Bethany an earth person, then Mother and Father were people of fire. Both were lovers of the sun and the hearth, both were passionate about that which they loved, and both possessed quick tempers, their love filled with highs and lows. Right now as they laughed together and embraced, Marian knew that it was a high moment; that was, until Carver sneaked up behind them to splash their bare backs. Father spun and dunked Carver’s head under the water.

 

“Marian!” Carver cried out when he rose. “Save me, save me from Father!”

 

 _What am I?_ Marian thought to herself, _In this family of elements? I don’t share Bethany’s love for that which grows, I don’t share Carver’s love for water -- although I will dive into it, or I won’t hear an end to the teasing if I don’t -- and I don’t have the fiery disposition of Father and Mother._

_What am I?_

 

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in the air heavy with the smells of salty water and pine trees. Reaching high above her with long fingers, she approached the water with delicate steps, opening her eyes to sprint the last few strides before aiming at the water with her hands.

 

There was a brief but blissful moment where she hung in the air before crashing into the water, and that moment was her moment, feeling the wind whipping against her face as she remained suspended above the water. The cold enveloped her from hands to head to torso to legs, sucking the air out of her lungs as she pushed it right out her nose, and she too had to gasp for breath when she surfaced.

 

 _I am air_ , she realized, as she gulped in great mouthfuls of it. _I love the sky, I love the birds, I love the feeling of lungs filled with fresh air._

 

Her thoughts were interrupted when Carver deemed that it was her turn as he splashed a great handful of water into her face; she sent him an affronted glare before splashing him back. Forgetting the cold Bethany sprinted in to join the family in the water and, before Marian knew it, the whole family was engaged in a water fight, splashing each other until their eyes were red from moisture and tears of laughter.

 

The Hawke family may have been a myriad of vastly different personalities, but together they formed a quilt so strongly bonded together that no matter what life chose to throw at them, they would forever remain united.

 

\--

  
  


“I told you, Carver, no.”

 

“But Mother, you have to see --”

 

Mother lowered her voice as not to be overheard. “That you becoming a Templar would bring even more scrutiny to our household? That as a Templar it would be your obligation to turn in your own father and sister?”

 

Stopping to grip her shoulders, Carver spun to turn his hungry gaze on Mother. “I think I could change the Templars, I think I could make a difference! It should be a place that mages turn to out of want and not need, a haven instead of a prison.”

 

The gaze Mother returned was burning, fierce. “A task well-suited for someone who does not have magic blood on their family. Like the Divine.” She stepped around Carver and continued a rapid pace forwards, trying to escape the argument that Marian had heard over and over again in the past year.

 

“But I want the sword training and no one else will take on someone with as little practice as I, and who says that one person can’t --”

 

Carver’s train of thought was interrupted as Mother let out a shriek of indignation and spun, baring her teeth: an urchin had grabbed her coin purse and was sprinting away from the Hawkes, his head ducked as he weaved through the crowd.

 

Without a word of warning Carver started after him, his long strides carrying him swiftly away from Mother and Marian. “I’ll follow him,” Marian assured Mother before taking off at her brother’s heels, legs that weren’t as freakishly long as Carver’s pumping hard as she attempted to keep him in her sights.

 

The urchin didn’t stand a chance. Marian caught up to find that Carver had him pinned to the ground, coin purse in one hand and the urchin’s collar in another.

 

“What are you doing, thieving?” Carver spat. “I ought to call the guard on you.”

 

“Don’t!” The urchin was sweating profusely, cutting clean lines in his filthy skin. Marian couldn’t help but pity him. “Don’t call the guards, I ain’t going to that jail, I just ain’t!” Tears joined the sweat the poured down his cheeks.

 

“Then why are you stealing?”

 

“No choice.” His voice was hoarse. “Parents are dead and I gotta feed my sister.”

 

Marian frowned; this urchin’s story was too familiar. “Put him down, Carver.”

 

Carver shot her a dirty glare but listened, shoving the boy by his collar deeper into the mud at their feet. He scrambled up, but Marian instructed him to wait; from her pocket she pulled three bronzes, half her week’s allowance, and pressed them into the boy’s palm. “Begging is better than stealing,” she instructed him before he sprinted as far away from the siblings as he could.

 

Averting her gaze as he pocketed Mother’s coin purse, Carver grumbled, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

 

“And you shouldn’t have been so rough with him.”

 

Carver’s teeth were bared when his eyes met hers, yet his words were hushed from shame. “He was stealing what little money we had!”

 

Marian’s words were equally hushed. “Because he had no choice!”

 

Their eyes remained locked before Carver turned away with an exasperated sigh. “Come on. Let’s go back to Mother.”

 

\--

 

Father was dying.

 

The irony of the healer who could not be healed was almost poetic. So many lives he had saved over the years, but he could not save his own.

 

The death looming over the household silenced it; not even the mabari had the energy to wag his tail or bark for treats. The Hawkes performed their chores in silence: Leandra washed dishes, Bethany folded laundry, Hawke swept the floors and Carver was feeding Father. Never did Hawke imagine that the day would come so soon when they would be feeding Father, instead of he feeding them.

 

“Psst! Marian!”

 

She turned to the source of the hushed voice; Carver’s curious blue eyes, surrounded by his wild dark hair, appeared from the doorway.

 

“What?” She snapped in a whisper. Carver did not reply, but frantically waved for her to enter the room; she rolled her eyes but acquiesced, resting her broom against the wall.

 

She hissed, “What is it?”

 

In response, Carver gestured to Father’s unoccupied bed.

 

“Where the fuck is he?” Marian snapped, still in a whisper.

 

“I don’t know.” Carver’s normally bright eyes were dark with fear and worry. “We must find him.”

 

Marian felt irrationally angry; she wasn’t angry with Carver, for he hadn’t lost Father, but she was angry with Father for making her worry so when he was so sick already. Had he left to die in peace, like a mabari would, leaving his family no solace?

 

“Wait here,” she hissed. She stuck her head out the doorway and called into the kitchen, “Mother, Carver and I are going to feed the hens.” Mother gave the smallest of nods, her gaze never leaving the plate she had been scrubbing for ten minutes now.

 

Marian and Carver left the house, her gaze averted the whole time. She couldn’t stand to look at her brother, to see the shame in his eyes or to let him see the tears in hers. Rain poured down in droves on their heads, the sky so dark that they could barely see in front of them.

 

How in the name of Andraste were they going to find Father in these conditions?

 

She imagined going inside, telling Mother that he had disappeared. She imagined how Mother would collapse onto her knees, sobbing, overwhelmed with the sorrow that had been threatening to take over since the first time Father had fallen. Bethany would put on a stiff lower lip to help Mother, but Marian knew she would cry herself to sleep for months after.

 

She was so lost in the images of her family in mourning that Carver’s arm held straight before her startled her, and she stopped swiftly. Carver’s eyes, fixed before him, were as wide as his mouth, and Marian could even see tears in them, something she hadn’t seen in as long as she could remember.

 

Her gaze fell forward, and she saw it, too.

 

Father was standing, shirtless, in the cold rain. His frail arms were held wide above his head, his bare face open to the skies, drinking in the storm. So thin he was, his skin translucent so that she could see through to the blood pulsing through his veins and arteries. The last of his grey hairs clung to his head, a reminder of how old he had become in his sickness.

 

And he was laughing.

 

“Father?” Her choked whisper was drowned out by the downpour, and Father could not hear her. As she paused, she became glad; for he looked far happier than he had ever looked confined to his bed having broth poured down his throat. He looked alive; ill, but alive.

 

Closing her eyes, Marian mimicked Father and lifted her arms above her head, opening herself to the sky, allowing the rain to pour down her and wash away her sadness, her grief, the weight of a loved one whose life could end at any moment. She thought only of the cleansing power of the rain as it soaked through her clothing until it clung to her like a second skin. How did she once hate rain? When she opened herself to it and embraced it, wasn’t it a beautiful thing? Pure water offered by the skies, able to quench and to cleanse. Rain brought about healthy crops and healthy families, cold be damned.

 

She shivered, and she laughed too.

 

“I told you rain was beautiful.”

 

Her head snapped forward at the sound of her Father’s voice, stronger than it had been in weeks. His arms were at his sides again; he was smiling but it was strained, taking all of his remaining effort.

 

Marian attempted to school a stern expression on her face, but she found that she couldn’t. “We were worried.”

 

“I’m sorry.” His pale tongue reached out to lick his lips. “I saw the rain through my window and I couldn’t resist. It may be my last rainfall.”

 

Again Marian was grateful of the rain, for it disguised the tears that slipped down her cheeks. Her fingers reached out to grasp Carver’s; his hand squeezed hers when they met.

 

“You’ve both been so strong. For your Mother, for me.” He was trembling from cold and sickness. “I’m so proud of you both.”

 

Marian opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, only a choked and pained noise.

 

Father lowered himself onto one knee, taking one of their hands in each of his, forming a circle of the three of them. His skin felt paper-thin and wrinkled, and his hands were cold and shaking. “Take care of Mother and Bethany for me. They’ll need your strength through this.”

 

“Father--”

 

He rested a finger on Carver’s lips to pause his protest. “Instead of grieving, son, remember our shared memories. When you want to cry, rejoice instead for the time that we did have. Remember everything that I’ve taught you, and use it.”

 

Carver swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

 

“Now let’s get inside before your Mother and Bethany begin to fret.”

 

Without releasing their hands, Father walked them back into the house, a worn smile on his face.

 

\--

 

“Don’t…” Hawke paused to wipe away a tear that was slipping down her cheek. “Don’t publish that last one, alright?”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Varric nodded solemnly, scratching out his last notes.

 

“The Hawke family will always be remembered, because of you.”

 

She looked away from him, towards the window that opened to a Kirkwall sunset over Lowtown, the sun kissing the top of the buildings. “I wouldn’t be here without them. I wouldn’t have saved Kirkwall without them.”

 

Varric rested a comforting hand on her knee, holding her gaze in spite of her tears. “I know. And now everyone else will, too.” He stood, stretching his short arms overhead, letting out a dramatic yawn. “I don’t know about you, but all of this writing exhausts me. Ready for a pint?”

 

Performing her own dramatic stretch, she smiled down at Varric weakly. “I think I may need a few after that trip down memory lane.”

 

“Now that I can arrange.”


End file.
